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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27637411">The Art Teacher (Never Have I Loved Any Other Man)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevie_RST/pseuds/stevie_RST'>stevie_RST</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Geralt of Rivia, Depressed Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Songfic, Sort Of, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, artist geralt, based on The Art Teacher by Rufus Wainwright, minimal dialogue, oh and art teacher Geralt duh, second fic I have written that mentions a Turner painting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:36:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,934</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27637411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevie_RST/pseuds/stevie_RST</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"He was not that much older than I was<br/>He had taken our class to the Metropolitan Museum<br/>He asked us what our favorite work of art was,<br/>But never could I tell it was him"</i> - "The Art Teacher" - Rufus Wainwright</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Trans Characters in The Witcher Universe</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Art Teacher (Never Have I Loved Any Other Man)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have been wanting to write something based on the song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RUhmYO_1g4Q">"The Art Teacher" by Rufus Wainwright</a> for literal years! And then I had the idea for this fic and it seemed too perfect so I had to write it. </p><p>Please enjoy this fic and check out the song it's based on!  </p><p>Thank you so much to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazeetease">Kazeetease</a> for betaing for me!! </p><p>And thank you to some other friends you helped me brainstorm this idea!</p><p>EDIT 3/21/21 - now with art!!! Art by the amazing <a href="https://frostedbasilisk.tumblr.com">frostedbasalisk</a> on Tumblr!!! Art embedded at the end of the fic!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier walked up to the baby grand piano and wiped his finger through the thick layer of dust coating the fallboard. He stared impassively at his dust covered finger before wiping it on his pants. Glassy eyes gazed blankly out the bay window. It had been months since he played a single note, the dust on the piano an indication of just how long it had been. The dusty fallboard was pushed open and he gently ran his shaky fingers over the uncovered keys.</p><p>Depression kept him in its clutches, Jaskier knew it, and he knew why, he just didn’t want to admit it. The so-called best years of his life had been wasted. He was supposed to be happy, not in a loveless marriage with a woman. He wasn’t supposed to conform to fit his family’s expectations, but he'd lost what he loved and tried to settle instead. </p><p>Well he had settled all right. And now he was miserable, a shell of himself. Friends and family barely realized how much he was suffering. Why would they? He was good at putting on a mask to hide it. </p><p>With a frustrated sigh, he thunked his head down on the keys of the piano, relishing the discordant sound they made. He just laid his head there, the keys pressing into his temple as he felt silent tears stream down his cheeks and drip off his nose to land on the keys.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>Jaskier was standing in a corner sipping champagne. He used to love parties, but these corporate shindigs were just <em>so</em> dull. He was proud of himself for even showing up—or showing up and not hiding behind a pillar. He had no idea where Yen went and he didn’t really care. </p><p>Despite his lack of hiding, it didn’t mean that he was enjoying anything more than usual, quite the contrary. You see, this particular benefit was being held in a museum, and not just any museum, the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Jaskier had many memories from his teenage years that revolved around this museum. He didn’t realize how much he had avoided it over the years until he was obligated to visit again.</p><p>Not that it was much of a visit. If trying not to mingle and drinking too much champagne at a boring social function could even count as visiting the museum.   </p><p>He missed strolling through the halls and exhibits. Which is what led him to ditch the party, his half-finished flute of champagne deposited on the tray of a passing waiter before he left to explore the museum. If he was sober he probably would have realized he wasn’t technically supposed to be wandering the museum during the party, but he was beyond caring. </p><p>He ended up in some gallery—he wasn’t quite sure which one—and just stood and stared. He stared at paintings on the walls in the half dark. After a little while he wondered why his face was wet, his inebriated brain taking a while to register that he was crying. </p><p>He slowly made the trek back towards the party, but veered off towards an exit as he got close. He left without saying his goodbyes—not that anyone would care—and didn’t even bother to find Yen. He walked down the stairs outside of the museum into the chilly night and hailed a cab to go home. Too bad his home would feel just as cold.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>Jaskier stared at the Turner painting hanging on his living room wall. “He told me he liked Turner,” he mumbled to himself as he tilted his head and studied the painting that was already ingrained behind his eyelids. It was fucking stupid. Not the painting itself, but his reason for buying it. It was such a stupid idea because now all he had was a reminder to mock him. It haunted him by making him think about what he couldn’t have. <em>Who</em> he couldn’t have. How fucking naive he was when he bought the painting. Still young and just married to a woman he didn’t love, all to get back into the good graces of his family, thinking that he was useless in any other way, so why not go crawling back to his folks and be of use marrying the heiress to a partner company. </p><p>Now he was sitting on the floor staring at the painting, but not really seeing. He was tempted to just start throwing darts at it, but he didn’t have darts. Kitchen knives? No that was <em>just</em> a tad too extreme. In any case he knew he would be newly heartbroken the next day if he destroyed the painting in any way. It felt like it held a piece of his heart hostage as it hung elegantly on the wall, gilded frame and all. </p><p>Standing up, he turned his back on the painting before slowly making his way towards the piano. </p><p>The mug of now cold tea—that he had been clutching in his hands like some sort of lifeline—was discarded on one of the random end tables that dotted the room. </p><p>He stretched out his stiff hands, then his arms, raising them above his head, resting his hands on top of his head as he stared down the piano. </p><p>With a determined shake of his head, he strode to the piano and sat down on the bench. Still visible were the tracks where he had swept his fingers through the dust still coating the fallboard from his piano adjacent breakdown a few days earlier. At least he had remembered to cover the keys afterwards. </p><p>Choosing to again ignore the coating of dust, he opened the fallboard. </p><p>Hesitantly placing his slightly shaking fingers on the keys, he actually played a few notes. It was a bit of nonsense to reacquaint himself with the smooth feel of the keys under his fingertips. </p><p>Sometime later, he had realized he started composing in his head. His fingers playing the notes he hadn’t realized he’d strung together and yet he was playing some semblance of a song for the first time in months. </p><p>“<i>I was just a girl then, never have I loved since then</i>,” Jaskier sang to himself. “Well that’s depressing,” he chuckled self-deprecatingly. “But it’s something.” </p><p>And with that Jaskier jumped up from the piano bench, grabbed his mug of cold tea and ran into the kitchen for fresh tea and some scrap paper. </p><p>He actually had a song idea and it needed to be written down before it was lost in his brain forever. Excitement thrummed through his body at the prospect of creating again.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>Hours later, Jaskier was still at the piano. He had dragged over one of the little end tables, now covered in sheets of paper with lyrics and music scribbled all over them. He was also surrounded by multiple mugs of tea all at varying degrees of temperature and fullness, most having long gone cold. </p><p>The song was coming along and Jaskier realized it was the catharsis he had needed. He felt a bit disconnected from the song, but figured that might be a good thing. Though it was odd writing from the perspective of himself before he had transitioned. But he <em>was</em> just a girl then. Well... not really, because he knew he was a boy, but he tried to just be a girl despite how much it ate him up inside. </p><p>But maybe this song was what he needed. He had certainly been more productive in the last several hours than he had been for the last several <em>months</em>. He knew that one afternoon of hyper-productivity wasn’t going to make his depression disappear, but he actually felt <em>good</em>, for the first time in a long time and it was, quite strange actually. He had forgotten what it was like to be happy.  Even if only it was only in his little songwriting bubble.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>Jaskier missed him. He missed Geralt and desperately so. Sure you could say that he was just Jaskier’s highschool art teacher. But he had been more than that. Geralt, Mr. Rivia at the time (even if he didn’t mind if students used his first name) was one of the first people Jaskier felt like he could talk to. He was the first person Jaskier came out to and made sure to call him Jaskier when he newly chose the name for himself. He wanted to see how it felt to not think of himself by his deadname, but he didn’t have many friends and was still petrified of coming out to his parents.   </p><p>And sure he had a dumb crush on the man. But he really wasn’t much older, only a couple years out of college and managed to get the art/art history job at the so-called prestigious high school that Jaskier had attended. It was Jaskier’s last year and he was hoping to just get it over with. </p><p>So of course he ended up having art class with the hot new teacher. Who ended up being nice and understanding under his gruff exterior. Jaskier didn’t even realize he had a crush on his teacher for the longest time, he just knew that he liked talking to him and felt like he was able to be honest in ways he had never been before.  </p><p>So Jaskier was again thinking of the art teacher.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>It was a quiet day at the museum. One of those rainy days that you would think people would take advantage of to wander around a museum, when in actuality most people didn’t want to make the trek in the gloomy, wet weather. But Jaskier loved rainy weather and that soft ambience it created. He had felt like a kid again, happy and carefree as he splashed through puddles on his walk in the rain.</p><p>Currently, Jaskier was looking at a painting, that famous John Singer Sargent one that he had always liked—although his real favorites were in another gallery. It was a comfort to just stand in front of the painting and remember all the other times he stood alone in front of it. To stand in the same place and look at the same painted face at different points in his life.   </p><p>It started out just like every time; standing alone looking at the painting, trying not to overthink his life. But this time ended up being quite different. </p><p>He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice spoke from somewhere behind him.</p><p>“You did always like Sargent,” a gruff voice said. </p><p>Jaskier gasped and refrained from turning his head thinking it could not possibly be who he was hoping it was. </p><p>He took a breath and closed his eyes as he heard footsteps coming closer to him. </p><p>He opened his eyes a few moments later when the footsteps stopped. Taking another deep breath, he said, “And you always liked Turner.” </p><p>“Hmm,” the voice huffed and Jaskier knew it was who he hoped it to be. He didn’t know how or why he was there, but he was. It was Geralt standing next to him.  </p><p>He turned to his left and looked at the silver-haired man. “Hi Geralt,” he whispered, knowing he wouldn’t have been able to keep his voice from cracking with emotion if he spoke any louder. </p><p>“Jaskier,” the other man breathed, as if he was also holding back his emotions, which from what Jaskier remembered about the man was his fairly default state. </p><p>Jaskier took another breath to gather his wits. “Fancy seeing you here. Brings back memories, huh?” </p><p>“It does. You look well.” </p><p>“Thanks.” Jaskier ran his hand through his hair. “I wasn’t doing too great for a while, but things are getting better now. You look well too.” And he did. Jaskier took a moment to just look at Geralt. His silver hair pulled back in a half ponytail a stark contrast to his black trousers and grey dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked effortlessly put together.  </p><p>“Hmm, do you have time to talk?” Geralt asked. If Jaskier was anyone else he might have been thrown off by this taciturn man being the one to ask to talk, but Jaskier had truly missed the chats he used to have with Geralt in the art classroom those years ago. </p><p>It still felt strange to just run into Geralt now, but Jaskier was all for the universe giving him a break. He did not care how weird of a coincidence it was. He was desperate to talk to the man he was still hopelessly in love with, but more than that, he wanted to talk to a man who was one of his first real friends. </p><p>So despite his excitement, or desperation, Jaskier was beyond nervous and he was unsure of everything at the moment. Standing in the Met in front of one of John Singer Sargent’s most famous paintings—he was secretly glad it wasn’t a Turner. If it had been he was sure he would have broken down into tears by the sheer irony. </p><p>After a long moment, he was finally able to answer, “Yes, yes Geralt I would love nothing more than to talk to you.” He smiled softly, hoping that it would reassure the other man since he knew his emotions always showed on his face so he was sure Geralt had picked up on his anxiety.  </p><p>Jaskier led the way to a bench in the gallery—empty except for them—and sat down patting the wood next to him inviting Geralt to follow suit. There were probably better places to have a private conversation, but Jaskier didn’t want to leave the safe space that the museum in general, and this gallery in particular, had become. He was afraid that if they left the gallery, Geralt would just disappear into thin air.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>Once they were sitting down, Jaskier was able to tell that Geralt was nervous as well. He was tapping his fingers on his knees, which made Jaskier remember how he would often do that when he was preparing to talk to the class. It used to make Jaskier wonder why someone so shy would go into teaching, even if it was art. But then Geralt would talk about an artist or a concept—often by reciting his carefully thought out notes—and the class would actually pay attention. As much as Geralt’s lectures sounded rehearsed, they were engaging. It had been nice to have a teacher so passionate about what they were teaching. </p><p>But Jaskier was getting caught in his memories now and he had to focus on the present. </p><p>“I’ve been writing some music. Oh and my wife and I are getting divorced. So ex-wife? I guess. So not quite <em>yet</em> but soon enough.”</p><p>Geralt looked like he was choosing his words carefully before speaking, yet all he said was, “I’m… sorry. That must be hard.”</p><p>“Don’t be. It’s a good thing actually. We didn’t really love each other. It was mostly me being stupid and doing what my parents wanted. And what do you know, turns out we’re both gay anyway. Me and my wife—soon to be former wife. She loves her business partner, but didn’t want to ruin our relationship,” Jaskier scoffed, “as if we had one. And yet she somehow didn’t realize I was the one still pining for someone else from the very beginning.” </p><p>“That’s good then. It sounds like a divorce was the right decision for you both. I hope you get to talk to this person you were pining for.” Geralt said, sounding as if he was in pain. It made Jaskier wonder if he should dare to hope. </p><p>A few moments later his brain made the decision for him when he blurted out: “Well, I’m-I’m in love with you.” Jaskier breathed out a gasp, adding, “And I’m terrified.” He kept talking before Geralt even had a chance to get a word in.</p><p>“At least I think I’m still in love with you. All I know is that I have missed you desperately over the years. And life, it just happened. Even if I hated it, it was still happening and I was busy and forgot to get in touch. And then it always felt like it was too late and not worth trying. I’ve followed your career though. Just seeing what you had sold or what you posted on your instagram every now and then. But I was married and as much as Yen and I were not right for each other I never thought about cheating or anything. I was probably too depressed anyway, I mean I’m still depressed now. I guess I just knew that if I tried talking to you again I would never want to stop.” Jaskier choked out a sob when he was done with his rambling. He hadn’t meant to monologue, but once he started talking it felt almost impossible to stop.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>When Geralt finally got a chance to speak once Jaskier was out of breath and words after his unexpected monologue, Jaskier couldn’t believe his ears at first. There was no way Geralt was also confessing his feelings. And yet that was exactly what happened.</p><p>“You understood me. You didn’t expect me to speak when I had nothing to say. And I was glad to be a friend to you when you needed someone to listen.” </p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier started to respond, but Geralt continued, a bit to Jaskier’s shock as he didn’t expect Geralt to have even more words so soon.</p><p>“Jaskier, I know you are a different person now than you were then. It’s been quite a few years. But I don’t think our connection has changed. You were my student then, and I know you didn’t think so, but I was aware of your crush. I had hoped to run into you again once you graduated, but it was up to you. I wasn’t going to suggest anything or pressure you. You had a whole new world ahead of you. In more ways than one. And I had only just started teaching at the school so I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. You knew where to find me.”   </p><p>Jaskier sighed. “Um, thank you,” he practically whispered. He didn’t quite know how to respond to Geralt’s words. He himself was at a loss for words, which didn’t happen often.</p><p>Geralt nodded, a small smile gracing his face. </p><p>Jaskier forged on to continue the conversation. “So, I wrote a song…” he said, then paused unsure what exactly he was going to say next.</p><p>Geralt hummed in response as if he knew Jaskier was going to say more. Which was true, but Jaskier had almost forgotten how good of a listener Geralt was. </p><p>“Yeah. It’s the first song I’ve written in, well, months. Probably longer now that I think about it.” Jaskier chuckled. He nervously ran a hand through his hair, yet again feeling at a loss for words.</p><p>All he could think about was how they were on even footing now. In Jaskier's eyes, Geralt was no longer some unattainable man that he had put on a pedestal when he was his teacher. Geralt was in no way the equivalent to the Turner painting that Jaskier had bought those years ago in a hope to fill a hole in his heart. Geralt was <em>so</em> much more. And he was in no way perfect. He did not belong on a pedestal and Jaskier had known that for a while now. They were both human beings with many flaws, but they both had their strengths as well. Jaskier couldn't think of anything more perfect than getting a chance to truly know Geralt, to get to know all of his strengths and all of his flaws. To embrace how well they fit together as flawed humans who loved each other even after many missed chances. Most of all, Jaskier was willing to try, he was willing to work for it in a way that he never felt before. It was certainly a far cry from the relationship he had had with Yennefer, which hadn't really been a relationship at all. </p><p>"Will I get to hear this song?" Geralt asked, fondly. He had inched closer to Jaskier without Jaskier noticing and they were now seated thigh to thigh, with Geralt’s finger on his own knee brushing Jaskier’s knee as well. </p><p>Jaskier chuckled again, "Well it's sort of about you. In a way. But also not. And it was very much born out of my depression so who's to say how good it actually is." </p><p>"None of that makes me want to hear the song any less," Geralt responded. "I'd be honored to hear any of your songs." It was in that moment that Jaskier's heart melted. He was in complete awe of the gentle kindness of the man next to him. It was also when Jaskier realized that the story didn't quite fit the song anymore, or rather it was no longer the full story. Jaskier finally ended up with the man he loved. He would gladly throw out that Turner painting hanging in his—well it was no longer his—apartment. Although it did hold true that he had never loved any other man.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>Jaskier was standing in front of a painting. It had to be the most beautiful painting he had seen. He was probably biased, but he was okay with that. A smile crossed his face and he couldn’t help the fondness that he felt. </p><p>He sold the Turner. It was a new painting that graced the wall of his new home. There was a lot of new in his life and for the first time in a long time it was a good sort of new. A welcome newness. </p><p>The painting that hung in pride of place on the wall above Jaskier’s precious piano was a Geralt Rivia original. It was a special painting. Not painted specifically for Jaskier, but close enough. It was a beautiful landscape, reminiscent of some of the master works he visited at the Met. </p><p>In the foreground was a meadow. A soft luscious meadow overgrown with dandelions and buttercups: weeds with strong roots, hardy plants that held their own. Various other wildflower varieties dotted the landscape, the viewer’s eye drawn to the lushness of the green grass with hints of color. </p><p>Looking closer at the painting, the viewer could see the crumbling stone ruins in the background, taken over by nature. Plants and vines twining their way over stones, smudges of green moss like makeup on stone faces. </p><p>Jaskier felt as if he could imagine every detail when he closed his eyes yet still he found something new the more time he spent with it. Much like the artist who created it. Jaskier swore that he learned something new to love about Geralt everyday. </p><p>Jaskier sighed in contentment, closing his eyes, to just take a moment. A moment to ground himself and know that a smile would again cross his face when he opened his eyes and saw the painting again. </p><p>He was humming while he stood there, feeling the warmth of the sun coming in through the windows, hearing the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the chirps of birds and the barks of dogs outside. </p><p>It was nice. </p><p>It was even nicer when a pair of strong arms wrapped around him from behind. He leant into the embrace, eyes still closed, a smile already stretching across his lips.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>Never have I loved since then</p><p>No, never have I loved</p><p>Any other man</p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! </p><p> </p><p>I'm <a href="https://iboughtaplant.tumblr.com">iboughtaplant</a> on Tumblr.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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